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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23647156">if there’s a reason</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus'>VesperNexus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>that boy is mine [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hamilton - Miranda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Secret Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:49:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,327</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23647156</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“So let’s have it then,” Martha clears her throat, “how long have you been fucking my husband?”</p><p>Or, Martha Washington wants to hear about the boy who stole her husband's heart.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexander Hamilton/George Washington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>that boy is mine [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677175</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>99</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>if there’s a reason</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>idk i'm in a mood, three posts in three days and no closer to finish my assignments haha</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So,” Martha carefully adjusts her skirts around her legs, thin fingers sorting the fabric over the chair, “do tell me about this boy of yours.”</p><p>Washington is wary enough to keep his face blank, but helpless against the defensive hunch of his shoulders. Instead, he focuses on keeping his hands steady as he pours the wine into the glasses. Dark liquid sloshes up the sides. Evening has barely broken, but he thinks today they can be forgiven.</p><p>It’s only when he’s seated opposite his wife, both feet firm on the floorboards, that he replies. “There’s not much to say.”</p><p>Martha snorts, unladylike and still charming as ever. He shifts his gaze to the large window to their right, watching the sun disappear unassumingly into the trees. Little figures trot about storeys below, like a spill of working ants hurried and meek.</p><p>“If this is the same boy who has managed to bring the great General George Washington to yield, I would hardly say he’s <em>not much.</em>” Washington lets his body relax into the chair in increments, hands clenching and unclenching around the armrests in an unfamiliar show of raw nerve. The slip of Hamilton’s delicate body on his lap flares hard and fast behind his eyes, from the downcast diffidence to untempered joy. Washington shifts with a long, tired sigh and Martha continues, “Not even I managed to do that.”</p><p>He opens his mouth but the words feel awkward on his tongue, sentences stumbling in an uncomfortable jumble. It’s not often Martha brings up their brazenly failed romance.</p><p>“But I don’t want to talk about <em>that.</em>” Her eyes are luminous in the orange glimmer, severe and <em>knowing</em>, but not unkind. Never unkind. “I want to talk about Colonel Hamilton.”</p><p>Washington knows he owes her this much, at least. Even after all these years, the injury he dealt her must feel pink and raw, stitches pulled achingly taut with every carefully penned letter. Illusions of love and romance, all hollow and deceptive. The ache of sleeping two feet away from your betrothed. Beautiful in white lace and skill, carnal reprieve dangled selfishly above your head by a husband who will neither disrobe you nor take you. The feeling of being unwanted, <em>undesired</em> by the heart, of being so arbitrarily denied. Once he called it a <em>marriage of convenience, </em>and she had not spoken to him for a fortnight. It’s a wonder Martha does not hate him.</p><p><em>Providence</em>, he owes this woman. “I’ve met no man more brilliant or honourable.” She raises one delicate eyebrow in a slow, deliberate movement. “His rhetorical skill is unparalleled, and he-” Martha does not react, does not fidget her hands from where they are clasped around her skirts, and perhaps that is most telling of all.</p><p>Washington tries again. “Alexander is the first summer rain after a terrible drought.”</p><p>It sounds ridiculous to his ears. He will never master the rhetorical dexterity his boy wields so seamlessly, the poetic sleight of hand that drips off his delightful tongue like honey. But he’s not quite sure how else to put it. Hamilton is the hope which quells the heat in his bones and settles the beat of his heart, the courage which keeps his chin high in the face of defeat, the cool hand that presses over his forehead in a fever and holds him through the worst nights.</p><p>And Martha understands. Something opens, <em>blossoms</em>, in her eyes, and its agonising and breathtaking all at once. <em>I wish I was your summer rain, </em>she doesn’t say. “Well. At least it’s no silly tryst.”</p><p>“No, Alexander is…” <em>forever, </em>he doesn’t say. The silence blankets the room like a draft, sneaking in from all the damp corners, sifting up from the cracks in the floorboards.</p><p>Martha finally closes her fingers around the stem of her glass, and draws a long swallow, “Do you know he’s a bastard?”</p><p>A chill folds over the steps of his spine. Washington keeps his voice measured, reaching for his own glass. “His parentage could not matter less to me.”</p><p>She continues, eyes searing. Washington holds her gaze long as he is able. “They say his mother was a Caribbean whore, knocked up by a Scots-”</p><p>“Martha.”</p><p>“By a <em>Scotsman, </em>or two, or ten if the rumours are to be believed-”</p><p>“<em>Martha</em>.”</p><p>“Left to fend for herself and a little Bastard boy-”</p><p>“Martha <em>that’s enough!</em>”</p><p>The glass almost shatters against the table, snapped down with such force wine slicks over the edge, dripping slow as syrup. His wife does not look particularly moved by his outburst.</p><p>“He has <em>nothing, </em>George. No land, no title, not a cent to his name!” Her frustration is scalding and palpable. Washington bites his tongue hard enough to keep himself grounded, tethered, lest he let reply something regretful. “You have your pick of pretty mistresses, and you choose a boy with <em>nothing</em>! I thought you a smart man, George.”</p><p>It’s a long time before he speaks. Dim blue darkness has already ushered away the waning sunlight. “I don’t know what you wish me to say, Martha.”</p><p>“I want to know how you think this is going to end. Do you propose to bring the boy back with us, to our home? Or do you propose to abandon him like his father? Yes, perhaps you could <em>adopt </em>him, though you’ve never been interested in having children before.”</p><p>The blow lands cold and hard between his shoulder blades. Washington grits his teeth, “That’s not fair.”</p><p>“No, George, what’s not fair is bedding a Bastard of no station while your wife worries for your safety <em>at home</em>.”</p><p>“Stop calling him that Martha.” She has always known how to best pry open a healing wound, stick her thin fingers inside and <em>curl</em>, carefully maintained nails tearing through his sinew without apology. Christ. “You will call him by his name or not at all.”</p><p>“Is that an <em>order </em>General?”</p><p>Washington stands, wine forgotten. He crosses the room silently, pulling her long coat off the hook behind the door.</p><p>“It’s late. I will have someone escort you to your lodgings.” Washington holds the coat out to her, waiting with a painfully translucent illusion of patience. But Martha does not move, opting instead to take a small delicate sip of her wine.</p><p>“I won’t move until you’ve answered me George.” Something subtle shifts in her tone, an exhaustion tugging elusively between the gaps. “You owe me that at least.”</p><p>Washington lets his arm fall. <em>You owe me that, for our sham of a marriage. </em>A loose breath shakes his lungs in his chest. He wills the anger to keep, wills the fire simmering in his belly to boil over, but it never does. In all their years together, he has never sought anyone else. Never her, but <em>never anyone else. </em>Washington wonders if she believed him to have no romantic, no carnal desires whatsoever, if that made it easier to sleep in their marriage bed alone.</p><p>“I will not bring him back with us.” The rigid line of her shoulders finds reprieve for a too quick moment. He closes his eyes, “because I will not go back.”</p><p>Martha says nothing. She does not even spare him a glance as she snatches her coat from his loose fist like a woman wronged.</p><p>She closes the door quietly behind her, and Washington lets his head fall into his heads.</p><p>*</p><p>Martha paces herself, willing her composure to return with every step down. A whirlwind of indignation and sorrow turns inside her, stormy and upsetting, until she feels every one of her four decades settle on her shoulders. Before she leaves the stairway, she resolutely adjusts her collar about her neck, lifts her chin and blinks the godforsaken tears from her eyes. She’s not bitter, <em>she isn’t.</em></p><p>She plans to slink away unnoticed by the men, hurrying with all the subtly she could manage toward the warm cackle of fire and a hot bath to drown her disappointment. But as she sets foot into the workroom, she sees <em>him.</em></p><p>Hamilton stands by another soldier, maybe an inch taller, with a dazzling smile and familiar unruly curls. <em>Henry Lauren’s son, </em>her mind supplies helpfully. He slaps a hand on Hamilton’s thin shoulder and the boy looks up, a small impish smile setting alight the youth in his face. Cheekbones that could cut glass and dark pronounced circles around his eyes – big, intelligent eyes peeking from behind a loose lock of hair. She doesn’t begrudge her husband for falling for a pretty face. <em>It’s not your place.</em></p><p>Hamilton notices her. Martha twists her fingers hard into her skirts, diffident smile pulling her cheeks achingly. “Colonel Hamilton, I wonder if you might escort me to my lodgings?”</p><p>For a moment quicker than the beat of her fervent heart, Hamilton looks <em>panicked. </em>It twists his handsome features almost comically from the gentle part of his lips – <em>you know where those lips have been</em>– to the widening of those dark, dark eyes, - <em>and you know what those eyes have seen. </em>She pushes the thoughts clear from her mind.</p><p>The boy’s face quickly twists in a charming smile. He nods easily as he places himself carefully by her side, offers one thin arm like a gentleman.</p><p>She almost misses the quick glance Laurens shoots his friend, and files it somewhere far, far away. Martha closes her fingers around his arm and lets him lead her through the door.</p><p>Hamilton says nothing as they step into cool night. He does not even glance her way, the picture of humble curtesy and all. Or maybe he’s just afraid.</p><p>When they’re far enough from camp, on the short familiar trail to the inn, she takes a deep, grounding breath. “I’m glad you have your clothes on this time, Colonel.”</p><p>To his credit, the boy does not splutter in righteous indignation as she half expected. A gentle blush smudges the lines of his neck, vivid even in the dying light. “I apologise, Lady Washington.”</p><p>“So let’s have it then,” Martha clears her throat, “how long have you been fucking my husband?”</p><p>Hamilton keeps his eyes trained ahead with great difficult. The blush does nothing to enliven the translucency of his skin. “Lady Washington…”</p><p>“I have been married decades to that man, you know Colonel.” Her voice is pitched low, almost conspiratorial. She wishes she did not feel her stomach turn every so often. “And he has never bedded another woman. He has never bedded another <em>man.</em> And then he wrote home <em>about you, </em>subtle of course, but I could see his meaning through and through. I suspected his inclinations, but he never, we never-”</p><p>Martha stumbles over the words, and her eyes are moist. She blinks a few times, words tasting sickly sweet on her tongue. She chokes them down.</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>His words are tender in their honesty, like her marriage hasn’t split open a festering gap in her chest. Like George, her husband, her dearest friend, is not abandoning her come the close of this damned war. Like every wishful fantasy of sharing her life with the man to whom her heart belongs has not just been crumpled and thrown into the fire like yesterday’s news.</p><p>“I don’t want your pity.”</p><p>“It’s not pity.”</p><p>“I want to be happy for you.” Martha feels hollow. If she were prone to exaggeration, she would swear her insides have been scooped out with a dessert spoon and left pooling around her feet. “I want to be happy for him.”</p><p>Hamilton finally turns to look at her. They have stopped at the end of the road, a sensible distance from her lodgings. He looks at her with eyes that might have housed stars.</p><p>“I truly love him, if it’s any consolation.”</p><p>“It’s not,” she admits, “but it’s a start.”</p><p>She steps away from him. Hamilton’s face is soft and open. He wrings his hands together almost nervously, shoulders dipped low and it’s <em>not pity. </em>It’s compassion.</p><p>Martha spends a moment longer looking at the boy with stars in his eyes, the boy who has made her husband feel in ways she could never.</p><p>With the last fading bite of energy, she musters a smile.</p><p>“Goodnight Colonel Hamilton.”</p><p>She turns away, barely catches his whisper before it’s snatched by the wind. “Goodnight Lady Washington.”</p><p>*</p><p>Once the door is firmly shut and the latch set, Washington draws him close by the hand. Hamilton has a brief moment to tilt his chin before his general’s tongue is in his mouth and the sense is being kissed resolutely from his body. He is diffident, obedient under those strong broad hands as they slip around his trim waist, pulling their bodies together until there’s not a sliver of light between them.</p><p>“I love you, <em>I love you, I love you.</em>” A laugh bubbles from somewhere deep inside him. Washington holds him tighter, so tight Hamilton can already see the blue and yellow finger-shaped bruises blossoming on his skin.</p><p>“Alexander. <em>My boy, </em>I-”</p><p>“Your wife is terrifying.”</p><p>Washington sighs, from somewhere deep and tired deep inside. “I may have told her I would not be returning to Mount Vernon.”</p><p><em>Oh, </em>Hamilton feels the brilliant spark of untamed joy blaze deep in his gut. Hearing his General <em>say </em>it will never cease being music to his ears. And yet… “She was hurt.”</p><p>“She was devastated. But I can’t regret it. I won’t.”</p><p>Hamilton nods distractedly, nimble fingers quickly untying the cravat around his general’s neck. “George. If I were a better man,” the slip of fabric falls by their feet and he starts on the buttons, “I would spend hours lecturing you on the ethics of a marriage of convenience but,” he pushes Washington’s shirt off his deliciously broad shoulders and Hamilton’s mouth is already dry, “right now I’d like you to bend me over the desk and fuck me into tomorrow.”</p><p>Washington’s answering smile is all he sees before the queue is torn from his hair.  </p>
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